


Take My Heart Back And Be Free

by Eveth_21



Category: Phantom of the Opera (2004), Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 19th Century, Additional Tags to Be Added, Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, Canon ages, Happy Ending, JJ is older tho, Light Angst, Lilia and Yakov are married, Long-Haired Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Mention of dead characters, Mila is Lilia and Yakov's daughter, st petersburg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 21:55:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12616416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eveth_21/pseuds/Eveth_21
Summary: The Snezhniy Teatr in St Petersburg is renowned for its excellent opera on ice. However, very few people know of the secrets it hides inside its walls.When Jean-Jacques Leroy and his wife Isabella, together with Vikont Otabek Altin, take over the business, little do they know that nothing is going to be as easy as they expected, especially thanks to a temperamental diva and a mysterious Ghost who seems to have his own ideas about how the theatre is to be run.





	Take My Heart Back And Be Free

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! ＼(＾▽＾)／
> 
> I'm so excited I've finally managed to actually start this fic :3
> 
> Those of you who have seen the 2004 film of The Phantom of the Opera will probably find this very familiar. For those who haven't, I dearly hope the plot will be clear enough. Let me know if anything is confusing!
> 
> Sorry if the spelling of some names is not what you're used to. I figured I'd rather be faithful to the Russian original names.  
> Also, English is not my first language. Have mercy on me, and tell me if anything sounds a bit off!

 

**September 1870**

 

It was a bright autumn day, and St Petersburg looked simply gorgeous with the Neva shimmering in the sunlight and the seagulls squawking loudly—a sound every _Peterburzhets_ had learnt to both love and ignore. The crisp weather was finally starting to quell that summer warmth nobody had yet got used to, and despite the early hour, the streets were already swarming with people ready to face yet another day of work. The breeze coming from the sea carried the smell of salt, fish, and freshly baked bread.

Everywhere, vendors yelling to promote their goods in the marketplace, carts and coaches rattling on the stone pavement, ships crowding the port and the river, bringing wares and people in and out of the city. High domes and palaces that spoke of wealth and beauty and a glorious past, as well as a promising future. St Petersburg was indeed the perfect portrait of a great capital, however recent.

And just like any other capital worthy of its name, it had its share of nightlife, which the city's élite absolutely loved to entertain themselves with, even just to make their social status as clear as possible—some could argue it was their only job, after all. Among these activities, going to the theatre was certainly the most popular pastime. All upper-class people liked to indulge in opera, drama, ballet, classical music concerts, and, most of all, opera on ice. No other city could boast such a renowned company as the one housed in the Snezhniy Teatr. The theatre had only opened in 1860, but it had already become an international sensation. The orchestra and singers alone were among the finest in the world, but the skaters... oh, the skaters were _the_ absolute best, worshipped by their devotees as though they were some kind of ice gods, blessing mortals with their otherworldly grace. The Tsar himself was not an unusual addition to the audience, a fact which never failed to be mentioned in the ever-excellent critique.

That particular autumn day found Vikont Otabek Altin on his way to that very theatre. The season had finally begun, and he was to be introduced as the new patron, just in time for the opening night scheduled that evening. Although not even nineteen, Otabek took great interest in the arts, especially ice skating, which he considered as such. He had even tried to skate in the past, with rather poor results. In spite of his own unfortunate attempt, his passion for it had not diminished in the least. He had just resolved that if he couldn’t skate at all, he would then support those who could.

After an impatient ride along the many rivers and canals flowing through the city, his carriage finally came to a halt in front of an impressively large edifice, built in a simple yet elegant neoclassical style. The façade, decorated with half columns and high arched windows, hid the huge cupola rising on top of the main hall. On both sides, two additional buildings served as offices, dormitory, storehouse, banquet room, even ballroom for the frequent parties. The walls were painted with a peculiar mint-green-and-white colour scheme, which Otabek thought suited the atmosphere of St Petersburg quite a lot, especially in winter.

He took a couple of minutes to appreciate it from the outside, before going in to meet the people who had made a barely ten-year-old theatre a worldwide wonder.

 

 

“ _Vicomte_ Altin! It is such a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Two men and a woman were waiting for him in the foyer. The greeting had come from the taller man, who officially introduced himself as Jean-Jacques Leroy as he shook hands with him. The woman was his wife, Isabella Leroy. They both had dark hair and blue eyes, and were from Canada, which explained why they had greeted him in French, apart from it being a popular language among the aristocracy and learned people in general. They had recently bought the theatre and were now going to officially take it over.

The other man looked rather young, about Otabek’s age, had a darker complexion, dark hair and dark eyes. Judging from his almond-shaped eyes, he was native of a country in the Far East. His name was Phichit Chulanont, and he was the former owner of the Snezhniy.

They exchanged the usual pleasantries which, much to Otabek’s vexation, were always required in basically any kind of conversation. Not that he was necessarily unsociable, yet he was a very direct person and liked to get straight to the point.

The small talk, however, helped him figure out their character, even if only a bit. He found Phichit amiable, though a tad exuberant, but still a person he could easily go along with, if taken in small doses. Which was a pity indeed, because on the other hand, Jean-Jacques was rather brash and loud, and Otabek could only hope he wouldn’t turn into plain annoying with time, even though his wife looked like the kind of person who could somehow mollify him with her sweet yet firm temperament.

Overall, Otabek had a feeling that he was going to regret having to deal with him instead of Phichit, but there was no point in thinking too far ahead.

As they made their way to the main hall, Phichit explained his decision to sell the theatre. He had always been extremely fond of it, and of all the skaters, ever since his parents had been the owners, and even more after they had gone back to Siam and left its management to him. Still, his highest aspiration had always been running his own ice show, and now that the opportunity had presented itself, it was with a heavy heart that he had settled upon dropping everything to chase his dream in his home country.

If nothing, Otabek respected his boldness in leaving a flourishing business for the sake of an uncertain future. He genuinely congratulated him and wished him good luck, Phichit answering with a grin and then opening the heavy doors leading to the hall.

Otabek had been there many times already, but now that the room was almost empty, he could actually admire the general splendour of it. He let his eyes wander over the U-shaped Italian-style auditorium that could seat over fifteen hundred people in just as many bottle green velvet seats. Even without all the lights on, the balconies were gleaming with a golden glint, conveying an odd feeling of warmth that clashed with the slight chill permeating the room. From where he was standing, the huge box reserved to the imperial family was not visible, as it was right above the entrance door, decorated with ice blue brocade curtains, but Otabek had seen many a time Aleksandr II Nikolaevich with his wife Mariya Alexandrovna and their children watch a performance from there.

His eyes then fell onto the massive chandelier hanging from the ceiling. When it was all lit up, its myriad tiny crystals would send thousands of sparkling rainbows all over the room. As a child, he liked to chase after them, giggling, until his parents would affectionately scold him and remind him to behave.

Across the hall, instead of the usual stage, there was a sizeable rink, and in front of it, on a lower level, the orchestra pit. The musicians were all there, as well as the skaters, since it was the dress rehearsal. There was no music playing yet, the instruments were still being tuned, but the skaters were already going through their routines under the watchful gaze of a stern-looking woman and a yelling old man.

A handful of stagehands were arranging the scenery, securing backdrops with thick ropes. Others were taking care of the few props that would be needed, making sure everything was in order and ready for the upcoming performance. An old lady was making last-minute alterations to a costume, her expert hands working swiftly with a lifetime’s practice.

The whole theatre was buzzing with activity in the organised chaos that always characterised the final preparations before a grand event.

Phichit turned around to face his three guests with a broad smile.

“Come, gentlemen, let’s go meet the artistes.”

***

Yuriy barely glanced at the door when he heard it open. Actually, he was rather surprised he had heard it open, with Liliya screeching something at him about a sloppy free leg. He recognised Phichit, not even wondered who the other three were, and went back to focussing on his routine. To be honest, he had practised it to the point of feeling sick, and had even tried to tell Yakov there was no point in him rehearsing it one more day, but oddly enough, he hadn’t listened to him. The death glare he’d got himself was scary enough to feature in most people’s worst nightmares, but Yuriy was sixteen and hot-tempered, and extremely proud and stubborn. He had already received his fair share of reprimands, and Liliya was a good deal scarier than Yakov anyway.

 _To hell with that,_ he had thought bitterly. _I am better than the lot of them, yet here I am, still relegated to background choreography. When are they going to figure out that Viktor is as old as the hills? He’s losing his touch, and he’s becoming more ridiculous with every passing year. Just throw him out and let me have his roles._

He had not dared say any of that out loud. Instead, he had sighed and started practising, hoping that one day people would stop being enthralled by Perfect Viktor Nikiforov, and notice that he was just as skilled, if not better. Yet every time the roles were assigned, the main ones always went to Viktor and his Swiss friend, Christophe Giacometti. How was he supposed to get his share of the limelight?

“Yura, who do you reckon those gentlemen are?” Yuriy shot Mila a sideway glance, while keeping skating. If _she_ didn’t know, how could she expect he did? She was the best source of gossip in the whole theatre. Normally, he would have teased her about it, but his bad mood had him still sulking.

“Don’t know, don’t care.”

“Yura!” she whined. “Are you not curious? Good Lord, look at that young man, he’s so handsome!”

“We’re going to find out in a matter of seconds, no need to work yourself into a state,” he pointed out rolling his eyes.

As they approached the rink, Yuriy studied the newcomers. Two of them were holding hands, so he assumed they were engaged or married. The third man was indeed handsome, Yuriy thought blushing. Though a bit on the short side, he was well-proportioned, and his features were sharp but pleasant. There was a sparkle of pride in his otherwise expressionless eyes that caught Yuriy’s interest.

_Fine, Mila, now I am curious._

Phichit cleared his throat. “Yakov Fëdorovich, Liliya Dmitrievna, ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention for a moment, please?”

“Gospodin Chulanont, I am rehearsing!” Yakov complained lamely, since none of the skaters were actually doing so—they were all eyeing the strangers curiously, waiting to know more about them and what brought them to the Snezhniy.

“I’m sorry. I promise it won’t take more than a couple of minutes.”

“Fine,” he grumbled. “I’m counting.”

“Thank you. As I already told you a few weeks ago, I am soon to go back to Siam. I will be running my very own ice show—you’re all invited, by the way,” Phichit added with a chuckle, “and even though the thought of abandoning you is a source of great sorrow for me, I am sure I’m leaving this theatre in more than capable hands. It is my pleasure to introduce you to monsieur and madame Leroy, who now own the Snezhniy Teatr.”

Everyone clapped politely, while the Leroys waved and smiled.

“This gentleman here is Vikont Otabek Altin, our new patron,” Phichit explained as soon as silence fell again in the room.

Otabek acknowledged the renewed clapping with a small smile and a nod. “I am honoured to support you and your art. I am truly looking forward to tonight’s performance.”

“And these,” Phichit continued, indicating Yakov and Liliya to the Leroys, “are monsieur and madame Feltsman.  They see to each of our skater’s training, choreographies, everything. Their experience as former figure skater and ballet dancer are extremely precious to us.”

“Ahem!”

All eyes turned to the source of that noise.

“Oh yes, how could I forget,” Phichit said running his fingers swiftly through his hair. Yakov sighed heavily, muttering something that sounded awfully like ‘primadonna’. “May I present to you Viktor Vasil’evich Nikiforov? He’s been our leading skater for five seasons. And Christophe Giacometti. They are our most valued artistes.”

“It is an honour, sirs,” said Otabek, shaking hands with them while trying to hold back a smirk. He knew exactly who they were, having admired them for years from the audience. “But I believe I’m keeping you from your rehearsals,” he commented, probably noticing that the corners of Yakov’s mouth were inching downwards as the minutes passed by, “and I have some matters that require my immediate attention. If you’ll excuse me…” He bowed and exited the room, much to Yuriy’s disappointment, as he was now intrigued in a way he couldn’t explain.

“Everyone, back to work!” Yakov barked, the tone in his voice brooking no argument. “With music, if the instruments are ready.” He gave the conductor a questioning look, and received a brisk nod in reply.

Liliya motioned for the Leroys to follow her where they could get a better view. Yuriy joined the other dancers in the back, while Viktor took his position in the centre of the rink with an air of self-importance, staring at the Leroys as though daring them to take their eyes off him.

As soon as the music started, every skater threw themselves body and soul into the performance as though it was the real thing. After all, nobody wanted to deal with the Feltsmans accusing them of not taking things seriously.

Yuriy overheard Jean-Jacques praising the corps de ballet, especially him and Mila. Despite grimacing when he called him an “adorable blond kitten”, he had to suppress a snigger, noticing that Viktor was having a hard time coping with the lack of attention from his audience.

Sure enough, the music had hardly ended in a flourish of strings, and Viktor was already skating over to Liliya and the Leroys, a deep scowl on his face.

“Ah, monsieur Nikiforov,” Jean-Jacques greeted him with an innocent-looking smile. The poor fellow didn’t know Viktor well enough to be able to read his mood—not that right now it needed a great deal of mind reading. “What a breathtaking performance! Worthy of one of the greatest skaters of our time.”

“I’m surprised you would say this, considering you’ve barely taken notice of my skating,” Viktor replied coldly. “In all honesty, I often wonder what I’m still doing here, when clearly none of you appreciates me as you should, so much for me being ‘one of the best skaters of our time,’” he added, mocking Jean-Jacques words.

A few skaters behind him rolled their eyes. Some others muttered ‘ _not again!’_ under their breath. Jean-Jacques had at least the decency to blush a little.

“Oh, come on. Don’t take it personally. Surely you’re aware of the excellency of the ballet—”

“You may save your words, monsieur Leroy. I understand I am dispensable here. I hope you’ll enjoy your ballet tonight.” Having said that, Viktor stiffly stepped out of the ice and started dramatically unlacing his skates.

Yuriy snorted loudly. He admitted he was rather moody himself, but Viktor was on a whole new level. If he still got to solo while being so unprofessional, he could only thank his admirers, who represented a significant portion of the theatre’s income.

The Leroys were now looking at Phichit, visibly panicking. This was probably not the first day they had imagined.

“What do we do now?” Isabella hissed.

“Grovel,” Phichit said simply.

“I beg your pardon?” Jean-Jacques looked like the verb ‘grovel’ wasn’t even in his vocabulary, Yuriy thought, mildly amused.

Phichit sighed. “Follow me and watch closely. It would seem you’re going to need it in the future.” He approached Viktor, who was now sniffling in a dignified fashion, and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“There, Vitya. No need to act as if everyone here didn’t know you’re vital to the Snezhniy. We would be nothing without you. Your skating is beyond comparison. There’s a reason why your devotees call you the _Serebryanaya Tsaplya_ ,” Phichit chirped, his voice velvety and cajoling.

Viktor scoffed, not even lifting his eyes from his skates. “Of course. The _silver_ heron. I’m not even worthy of gold to my own supporters,” he muttered through gritted teeth, tugging viciously at the laces.

Yuriy groaned. Now Viktor was clearly being petty for the sake of it. Very little could be done when he was in this foul mood, and it had been happening more and more frequently. He often wondered what had got into him in the last few years. He used to be cheerful, almost annoyingly so. And _happy_ , like someone who had a pleasant thought constantly sitting on his mind.

It had not happened all of a sudden, one day he was chatting amiably with a fellow skater and the next he was avoiding even looking at people. No, it had been more gradual, as though that one happy thought had slowly rotted away for some unknown reason, eventually leaving him all bitterness and sad eyes and spiteful remarks.

Yuriy had never asked Viktor what was wrong with him, of course he hadn’t, it wasn’t like he actually cared about him. But Mila had, and according to her, she would have received more responsiveness had she asked Viktor’s dog, Makkachin. All they knew was he had started shunning the very universe he used to be the centre of. Now he barely spoke with anyone—civilly—and when he had to, it was always with a mixture of coldness and scorn that made the experience rather unpleasant for whoever had been foolish enough to talk to him.

His skating had changed, too. His technique was still flawless, of course. He wasn’t naïve, and knew that no amount of loyal supporters could ever make up for a drop in its quality. But almost everyone at the theatre had noticed by now that it was often devoid of deep feelings, of the passion that used to shine through his performances. The audience didn’t really care. They wanted elegance and perfection, and to feel proud of their local treasure, and Viktor never failed to deliver.

In public, he donned yet another mask: polite and slightly detached, always ready to wear that gentle smile, occasionally accompanied by a wink, which made women swoon left and right, and straight men question their own sexuality. Very few noticed that his smile never quite reached his eyes, too busy lauding Viktor the skater to be concerned with Viktor the person.

And if he was happy with this pretence of human relationship, if this long-distance devotion was all he needed, then it wasn’t Yuriy’s place to tell him otherwise.

“Vitya,” Phichit mildly chided him. “You know the silver refers to your hair, which, by the way, your public loves dearly.”

“Oh, so they love me for my _hair_? What an accomplishment,” spat Viktor caustically. He stood up. “That’s it. I’m done. You like ballet so much? Pick one of the dancers. Good luck finding one half as good as I am.

“Someone bring me my dog!” he shouted then. “Come on, Chris, we have no business here anymore.”

At his words, Chris merely shrugged and exited the rink. He was probably the only person who hadn’t had enough of Viktor’s temper tantrums and still put up with him.

He was also their only other soloist apart from Viktor, and Phichit was well aware of it. In fact, he was starting to look rather worried, as usually mentioning Viktor’s supporters was enough to make him see reason and put an end to whatever nonsense was going on.

He glared at Chris, probably because he was supposed to talk some sense into Viktor, and not indulge him.

 _A waste of time,_ Yuriy thought. Chris was nothing short of a mercenary. He was there with Viktor and for Viktor, not for his loyalty to the Snezhniy, nor for his own career. Skating there or anywhere else was of little consequence to him.

“Viktor Vasil’evich,” Isabella chimed in. “Isn’t there a rather marvellous aria in act three of tonight’s opera? I believe it is called _Stammi Vicino_?”

Viktor looked at her, frowning, puzzlement evident in his ice-blue eyes.

“There’s supposed to be, _da_. But last time I checked, my costume wasn’t ready yet, as the ladies in charge have made a mess out of it. How many times do I need to say that I want the buttons, epaulettes and aiguillettes to be gold, and not silver?”

“I am sure this puts you to considerable inconvenience,” she said gently, no trace of sarcasm in her voice. “But I wonder, as a personal favour, if you would oblige us with a private rendition.” Viktor’s eyes lit up. “Unless, of course, Yakov Fëdorovich objects…?”

“No, he doesn’t!” chirped Viktor, giving Yakov no time to answer for himself. Anyway, the look on Yakov’s face was rather eloquent. The sooner he could resume his rehearsals the better, even if it meant letting Viktor have his way.

Viktor quickly laced his skates back up, then sprang to his feet and tossed his waist-length hair behind his shoulder.

“Everybody very quiet!” he commanded, sashaying gracefully to the rink despite walking in his skates.

Phichit approached Isabella and tapped her lightly on the shoulder to get her attention. “How did you know he has a penchant for _Stammi Vicino_?” he whispered, quite impressed. “He’s been dying to skate it in front of a real audience.”

“I did not,” she whispered back, shrugging. “I just really wanted to see it.”

“Well, that’s—”

“ _Psst psst_! You as well!” Viktor yelled from the ice, enjoining silence. He took position in the centre of the rink, arms loose by his sides, head bent down. “I’m ready, _maestro_ ,” he said to the orchestra director, who nodded curtly and turned to his musicians to make sure they were, too.

At the first melancholic notes of the cor anglais, followed by harp and pizzicato strings, Viktor looked up, a forlorn expression on his face. Then the tenor started to sing, and Viktor was gliding over the ice, slow, sorrowful movements mirroring the lyrics of the aria.

Everyone was looking at him, bestowing on him the same rapt attention he’d earlier felt so deprived of. However, he was too immersed in his own skating to care. It was clear that _Stammi Vicino_ held a special place in his heart.

As Viktor launched himself into a perfect flying sit spin, even Yuriy had to admit he could see why he was still the darling of skating enthusiasts of all ages. That song somehow allowed the old Viktor to peek through his mask, transforming an already heart-wrenching piece in a combination of flawless technique and raw emotions, aimed at capturing the audience’s souls and throwing them into a maelstrom of hope and despair.

A muffled sob behind him suggested that Gosha had already started to cry. Yuriy shot him a sideway glance and saw Mila patting him on the shoulder in a mixture of exasperation and amusement. _Still pining over Anya?_ Yuriy didn’t need to ask that aloud, and sure enough Mila answered with a shrug and a sympathetic look. _He’ll get over her. Eventually._

The young lady had recently broken off her engagement with Georgiy to marry a wealthy lawyer from Moscow, as apparently the living standards offered by an artist were not safe enough for her. How a practical woman such as Anya could have fallen for him, of all men, in the first place was beyond Yuriy. He was a man full of passion and ideals, an earnest believer in Love as a power able to overcome all obstacles, and in Art as a loving mistress, to which he would gladly pledge his life. For her, love wasn’t even able to overcome all wages, and art was an unreliable occupation at best, if not a complete waste of time.

Their relationships had been doomed from the very beginning, but he was a romantic soul—and quite an emotional one at that—and firmly believed in true love. _Stammi Vicino_ hit a bit too close to home for him not to be affected, rubbing salt on a still fresh wound.

 

The aria was nearing its climax, and Viktor’s skating was getting more compelling with every step and gesture.

But when the tenor sang “ _Stammi vicino, non te ne andare,"_ a sudden noise drew everyone’s attention. Too engrossed in his performance, Viktor didn’t notice that the rope holding a backdrop had come loose, and the piece of scenery collapsed with a crash onto the ice, or better, right onto the skater. Viktor slipped under its weight, falling unceremoniously on his buttocks with a cry of dismay coming from both him and his audience. Several skaters darted on the ice to help him lift the backdrop, even Yuriy, albeit with his lips stretched in a smirk. Yakov looked extremely relieved to find that Viktor wasn’t suffering from any injury but to his pride, although Viktor wasn’t looking nearly as pleased as him.

Sensing that the situation was deteriorating again, the Leroys quickly approached Viktor as soon as he stepped out of the rink. Yuriy admired their courage: Viktor’s bark was certainly worse than his bite, but right now the expression on his face was positively murderous, and soothing him was going to be a rather hard endeavour.

“Monsieur, these… things do happen!” Jean-Jacques chuckled, probably in an attempt to lighten the mood, as though collapsing scenery were a funny occurrence that was to be laughed off.

 _Wrong,_ Yuriy thought laughing up his sleeve. If Leroy was trying to trigger Viktor’s vexation, that was definitely going to work.

“These _things_ have been happening for the past three years!” Viktor yelled furiously, blood rushing to his face. “Tiny, little accidents, nothing serious, is it? But I’ve had enough! ENOUGH! And you,” he said, turning to face Yakov, “isn’t it clear enough that I’m being targeted? Have you done anything to stop this from happening, or to find out who’s behind it? _Nyet._ ” He didn’t give him any time to reply and spoke to the Leroys again. “And you two! You’re as bad as him. _These things do happen?_ This is utterly ridiculous! I shall not endure this situation one second longer. Until you stop these things from happening, _this_ thing does not happen!” He stabbed his finger angrily at his own chest to better convey an already crystal-clear message, then he turned on his heels, gesturing for Christophe to follow. “ _Davay_ Chris, we have no time to waste here.

“Where is Makkachin? I said bring him to me!”

A stagehand hurried to fetch Viktor’s dog, a fluffy, caramel poodle who, upon seeing his owner, barked happily and wagged his tail. Having already taken off his skates, Viktor grabbed hold of his leash and proudly stomped out of the building. Christophe followed suit, only lingering as long as needed to scoff _‘amateurs’_ at Jean-Jacques.

“Now you see, I’m really leaving. _Do svidaniya_.” Viktor’s voice echoed in the room before both skaters and the dog disappeared past the hall door under the horrified eyes of the Leroys, who were now likely cursing any god that was ever worshipped in the history of mankind. There was a long moment’s silence, none of them dared utter a word. The first to recover was Phichit. He took a deep breath, straightened up the lapels of his jacket and bowed slightly.

“Gentlemen, good luck. If you need me, I shall be in Siam.” He flashed a smile at them and took his leave. The Leroys were—if possible—even more horrified.

“Monsieur Nikiforov… He will be coming back, won’t he?” Isabella asked in a shaky voice. Yakov merely shrugged.

“You think so, madame Leroy?” Liliya approached them with an eyebrow elegantly arched, an unsealed envelope in her hands. “I have a message, sirs, from the Opera Ghost,” she said, handing a letter to them.

“Oh God in Heaven, you’re all obsessed!” Jean-Jacques commented rolling his eyes, but took the letter nonetheless and gave it to his wife.

“He welcomes you to his Opera House—”

“ _His_ Opera House?” he huffed incredulously, his eyes widening.

“—and commands that you continue to leave Box Five empty for his use,” Liliya finished, unfazed, pointing at said box. “And reminds you that his salary is due.”

“His _salary?_ ” Jean-Jacques’ eyes had reached the size of saucers.

Yuriy distractedly thought that the Leroys must in fact be having quite a bad day, though he wasn’t really in the mood to feel particularly sympathetic that morning.

“Well,” said Liliya, “Gospodin Chulanont used to give him five thousand rubles a month.”

Jean-Jacques’ eyes were now that close from popping out of their sockets.

“ _Five thousand rubles?_ ” he sputtered, snatching the letter from his wife’s hands to read it with his own eyes.

“Perhaps you can afford more, with the Vikont as your patron?” Liliya was now openly teasing him, the ghost of a smile on her otherwise ever-stern mouth.

“Madame,” he said heatedly, “I had hoped to make that announcement public tonight, when the Vicomte was to join us for the gala. But obviously,”—he added jerkily, tearing the letter in half, “we shall now have to cancel,”—he tore it into quarters—“as it appears” —he tore it into eighths, “we have lost our star!” He threw the pieces to the ground.

Isabella worried at her lower lip.

“Surely there must be an understudy?”

“Understudy?” Yakov barked. “There is no understudy for the _Serebryanaya Tsaplya_!”

“A full house, Isabella. We shall have to refund a full house!”

Silence fell again, heavy like a thick fog bank, laden with uneasiness and apprehension.

 

Then Liliya inhaled audibly and stepped forward clearing her throat, showing only the slightest hesitation before opening her mouth.

 

“Yuriy Grigor’evich could skate it, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the first chapter is done!
> 
> A Peterburzhets (Петербуржец)—if Google hasn't shamelessly deceived me—is a citizen of St Petersburg.  
> Snezhniy (Снежный) literally means "made of snow"; the 'ж' sound is pronounced more or less as a French 'j'.
> 
> Do you see that amazing art? The super talented [Lady Nikiforova (chat-noir-chocolat)](http://ladynikiforova.com/) is going to illustrate the chapters! ISN'T SHE AN ANGEL, I mean, look at that stunning art!!!
> 
> Last but not least, a huge thank you to [my super friend tea-rex](https://tea-rex26.tumblr.com/), who always puts up with me and my silliness, and supports me all the way. ILY, you are my pusher! (つ≧▽≦)つ
> 
> Another extra huge thank you to [ili-here](http://ili-here.tumblr.com/), who is always there for my unending questions about Russian. Your help has been extremely precious! <3
> 
> And again, I thank [Glynna](https://glynna-gold.tumblr.com/) for beta reading this chapter. I really appreciate you taking your time to fix my silly mistakes :D

**Author's Note:**

> Do you see that amazing art? The super talented [Lady Nikiforova (chat-noir-chocolat)](http://ladynikiforova.com/) is going to illustrate the chapters! ISN'T SHE AN ANGEL, I mean, look at that stunning art!!!
> 
> To any hypothetical reader out there: I'd better warn you. I am a very slow, very busy writer. I know this can often be rather off-putting, but I swear I am also very stubborn. I'll never leave this fic unfinished, no matter what.
> 
> I'm also on [Tumblr](https://dismalsheen.tumblr.com/)! Feel free to drop by if you want to have a chat about anything :D
> 
> And thank you, whoever you are, for reading this. Kudos and opinions are always very welcome!


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